No two ways about it, the end of April was a grand time, only marred by knowing that for some of us, it would end soon.

We’d signed on for six-month hitches, and they’d be up before the middle of May. A fellow couldn’t go anywhere without hearing somebody agonizing over whether to sign on for a second six months.

Nate made his decision early. “I’m going to work with Dad through harvest, anyway,” he said. “Probably I’ll be back for another winter term in the CCC, but maybe not. Maybe the crops will come in good enough he’ll at least talk about college with me.”

Riley Maxwell went back and forth with a couple of other southerners before all three decided that since they’d lived through a Montana winter, they deserved some summer under the Big Sky.

Apple just quietly said, “I’m in for another round.”

Only Sam was silent on the subject. For a while I thought it was because he was too busy putting together the camp yearbook to think of much else. Sam had taught Hal Linchfeld to use the camera, but he had saved the writing for himself. He said he was going to include highlights of all that had gone on during our hitches, both in camp and out, and he was still working on that.

“It’s a yearbook,” I told him. “You don’t have to turn it into the Iliad.” By then, Mr. Romsteder had our Great Works class reading Homer.

“I’m not trying to,” Sam said. He had a pile of newspaper clippings spread out on his bed. There was a headline about how a dirigible, the Hindenburg, was scheduling a flight across the Atlantic Ocean. “But you remember how Apple got us all putting our initials on the entrance?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I want to place us, too. And not only with a record that we were in the Cold Day Camp in 1936, but that we were here in the world now, too. In case we ever might need remembering how it was.”

“Sam,” I said, “even for you, that’s a pretty mixed-up thing to say. And you really don’t need to work so hard.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. Then, looking away, he added, “Anyway, I owe the 597th a lot. This is my thank-you.”

It hit hard. “That’s your way of saying you’re getting out?”

He nodded. “This came today.” He handed over a typed letter of acceptance from the University of Michigan.

“I didn’t know you’d applied,” I said.

“You told me to rethink what I’d said about not going back to school. Deep down I knew I needed to. And then you gave me that shove.”